


Shedding All My Old Regrets

by Febricant



Series: Informed Mistakes [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, TW: Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/pseuds/Febricant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter leaves Chris in Sacramento.</p><p>Peter finds him again in Santa Fe, living in a motel next to a diner, face brown from the desert sun. Peter is moon-pale, thin and sharp and salt-stained.</p><p>“What took you so long?” Chris snaps, shirtless in the evening gloom, backlit by neon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shedding All My Old Regrets

 

 

Peter leaves Chris in Sacramento.

Peter finds him again in Santa Fe, living in a motel next to a diner, face brown from the desert sun. Peter is moon-pale, thin and sharp and salt-stained.

“What took you so long?” Chris snaps, shirtless in the evening gloom, backlit by neon. Peter grabs him, hand snaking around the back of his head and yanking him down, foreheads meeting before lips, teeth.

“None of your business,” Peter hisses against his mouth, fangs dropping down to claim his due, aching for the taste of his blood.

-

Chris leaves Peter in Whitehorse, taking the truck and all the ammunition, leaving him a leather jacket and a knife. Peter has never truly been a morning person, so the almost-perpetual daylight just adds insult to injury.

He smirks and pockets the short blade, looks out for their (his) prey.

Chris finds him in a village in Montana, too small to have more than an intersection. Peter’s been busy, leaving a newly-decimated population of banshees.

“Seems excessive.” Chris’ lips are chapped from the autumn wind, distracting Peter’s focus.

“Maybe,” Peter allows, throwing the knife at him. Chris ducks, lunges, tackles him down outside a deserted gas station, breath pounding out of them both from the impact.

Peter steals some of Chris’ air instead, hissing at the rough drag of calloused palms on his chest.

-

Allison calls every now and then, smiling face flashing up on the screen of every successive phone Chris acquires. Peter will eventually comment on it and will be left on the side of the road for his trouble.

“How’re you doing, Dad?” her voice floats through the speakers, erasing whatever privacy Chris might have wished to hold on to. He glares at Peter, unable to hang up now that she’s on the line.

“Fine,” Chris says, trying for mild.

“Where are you?”

“Illinois,” Chris tells her, a white lie on their trail as they cross the border into Iowa, heading west.

“Are you coming home soon?” Allison sounds hopeful but not expectant, calmer and surer now that she’s a representative presence, place secure in Beacon Hills. She never did like to move around.

“Probably not, sweetheart,” Chris says, eyes steady on the road, “I have a lot of work lined up.”

“Okay, but we missed you at Thanksgiving.” Allison hangs up, no bitterness in her tone.

“I think we had a better time,” Peter says, rolling down the window and letting cold evening air whistle through his fingers.

“This year I’m thankful you managed to shut up for more than an hour,” Chris snaps, rolling the window up again, glare saying he hopes Peter gets his hand stuck.

“I could have bitten through that gag,” he informs him, head falling back against the seat.

“Well you didn’t, did you?”

Peter smirks back, rolls the window down.

Chris doesn’t laugh.

Peter doesn’t care.

-

“What right do you have to interfere, Omega?” Honestly, Peter is so tired of correcting them.

The beta’s young and reckless enough that Peter is already itching to slide into the shift and put him down, claws extending slowly. Chris rolls his eyes and steps forward, gun conspicuously pointing at the ground.

“Your business is with me,” he says mildly, squinting against the Kentucky sun.

“We’re peaceful,” the beta says, mocking and dishonest. Peter raises an eyebrow, lips peeling back off his fangs in what could charitably be called a grin, albeit malicious.

“I’d suggest learning to lie a bit better,” Chris says conversationally, shrugging minutely, “but…”

The bullet leaves an exit wound the size of a golf ball, brain tissue staining the loam.

“The rest are mine,” Peter tells him, crouching down to peel the skin back from the skull, watching the purple corruption of wolfsbane seep into the bone.

“They’ve been killing children.” Chris rolls the body over with the toe of his boot, looking for a pack tattoo.

“Alright,” Peter pulls his fangs in, stretching. Chris doesn’t really need to justify himself. Peter doesn’t really care one way or another, as long as it’s not too long before the true hunt.

Nobody ever needed to tell him being good was boring.

-

Peter fucks him over a shitty motel bed, one hand fisted in Chris’ hair and the other digging gouges in his hip, blood dripping sluggishly onto the covers as he comes, dragging his teeth along the hard line of Chris’ spine. His hand is slick and red as he slides it around to take hold of him, pushing him down with the weight of his chest. Chris shudders beneath him, hands twisting in the sheets as he comes, face turned away.

Peter takes the first shower. Chris likes to catch his breath and Peter is impatient, blood-hungry and moon-stretched.

The water runs the color of rust for a while, fitting and heavy with iron.

“All yours.” He tosses a towel at Chris, watching him roll lazily to his feet, enjoying the view.

“Happy?” Chris asks, cracking his neck.

It’s not really a question Peter can answer, but for now, he’s content, at least.

“As happy as you are,” he replies, sliding under the stained covers. Chris laughs, slamming the bathroom door.

He’s gone in the morning, but then, the full moon is coming and Chris has always been careful to maintain his plausible deniability.

-

Peter finds Chris in a bed and breakfast near Bismarck, feverish and angry.

The incubus behind the desk recoils from him, pupils blown wide with fear.

“Have you been feeding on him?” Peter hisses, hoping the answer will be _yes_  so he won’t have to explain, later. “Weakened hunter just a bit too big a prize to resist?”

“No,” it whimpers, and, well, it doesn’t matter all that much in the end. Peter’s claws shred through papery flesh and he takes a moment to admire the way its form shrinks in on itself, a sigh of agony escaping with the death rattle.

He shoulders open the door to Chris’ room and the smell of rot is immediate, fang-tracks standing out infected on Chris’ lean stomach.

“I know you can use proper grammar when you text.”

Chris glares balefully up at him, sneer twisted by pain. “Fuck off,” he snarls, hands shaking.

“Really Chris, must we always run in circles? It’s getting dull.” Peter advances, resting a hand over the largest tear, pressing down hard enough to draw a yelp.

“We wouldn’t… want that,” Chris forces out, teeth clamped down against the pressure.

“I’m not finished with you, Christopher,” Peter informs him, hands moving to bracket his hips, pressing him down into the hard mattress. “It will never be this easy.”

His teeth break through the scabs with a snap, rush of poison deeply unpleasant on his tongue. Peter draws in as much as he can, spitting a fine stream of blackened blood out onto the carpet.

Chris is screaming. Peter tunes him out, gets back to work.

-

Peter’s back hits the wall with enough force to rattle the picture frames, Chris’ hands hot on his shoulders.

“You agreed to wait for my signal,” Chris hisses, eyes light with rage.

“I agreed to wait for _you_ , actually,” Peter corrects, “there’s a significant difference, wouldn’t you say?”

“We didn’t have enough proof to go after that coven.” Chris’ voice is flat, toneless, and no, that’s not right, he should be running hotter than this, should be dying to lash out.

“ _We?_ ” Peter feels the smirk twisting his lips, pushing for a rise.

“You think this is a game, Peter?” Chris moves in, grabbing his chin and forcing his head up. His heartbeat stutters, skipping over on his name.

“You think it isn’t?”

Chris pushes a knee along his inseam in response, blood smearing sluggishly along the fabric of their jeans, forcing Peter’s legs apart. “It’s not a game to me.”

Peter smiles at him close-lipped and runs his fingers along the line of Chris’ belt, catching on the buckle and lingering, moving the leather gently back and forth. Chris sucks in a sharp lungful of air, hands clenching hard over Peter’s bones.

“You could teach me a lesson,” Peter whispers, lips close to his ear.

Chris snarls, shoving him down.

He _can_  usually be persuaded to play along.

-

  
They never find Gerard, but it doesn’t really matter.

They’ll keep looking, for as long as Chris is sure he needs to. Peter doesn’t care one way or another, certainly not when Chris has so many other perfect secrets for Peter to tease out with his teeth.

They’ve pulled over at truck stops by nameless highways just to bicker over the coffee and checked into motels just to fuck; Chris has left him in the frozen north as payback for a slight. Peter has left Chris by the ocean, unexplained.

Peter wouldn’t want it to be _easy_ , after all.

They see a bumper sticker on an old Trans Am that says _if you love something, set it free_  and Peter laughs until his eyes stream, hand wrapped tight around Chris’ knee, muscles shifting under his palm.

Love is for children.

- **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [ Dirtydirtychai](http://dirtydirtychai.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> This was written for the [ Rare Pairs Challenge](http://marielikestodraw.tumblr.com/post/37197611502/teen-wolf-fandom-i-challenge-thee) on Tumblr and can be read as a sequel to It's Bad Enough We Get Along.


End file.
